Repercussions
by Counterkill
Summary: After publishing sensitive information, uncovering a covert operation, and meddling in the wrong affairs, a journalist and grey-hat hacker has an unpleasant run-in with Abstergo Industries.


Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Assassin's Creed. It's a real bummer— but true. This is a formal request to Ubisoft to please not send any Assassins after me— wait, on second thought, if they're Altaïr or Ezio, that's cool with me— uh, more than cool... In fact— *eh-hem*— this is a now formal request to Ubisoft to pretty-please-with-cream-and-a-cherry-on-top, send as many Assassins after me as they so desire. *odd little giggle* Because I would like that very much. Yessssssss. :3

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><p>He could feel her eyes upon him, taking in his every move—more akin to a bird of prey than a human being. Of course, he knew the reason: you could learn far more about someone by interacting with them in person, than by observing them only indirectly, or from a distance; and up until now, hers had probably been the latter method. How much was he giving away, merely by the act of avoiding her gaze? Posture, eye contact, silence (or lack, thereof), body language—anything could be a cue. Christ, he should have studied this stuff in college, when he had had the chance. <em>But it's too late now,<em> he thought wearily. _Much too late..._

"Edward Morris," she said, in that disconcerting voice. It was soft, and smooth. Innocent. _As if._ He looked up for the briefest of glances, found her dark eyes boring through his skull, as predicted, and went back to gazing blankly at the table. It did nothing to calm his nerves, but was much better than meeting that woman's cold, calculating stare.

"That's your name, isn't it?"

He gave a slight nod, but did not look up again. Her tone was polite. Almost friendly. It set his teeth on edge. As if she _really_ didn't know who he was, after stalking him for... well, who knew how long? It could have been days, or years: neither seemed more likely than the next. But after all, that's what they did. They were invisible. Unpredictable. Wiped their fingerprints off the history books, easily enough. _And as for anyone who gets on their bad side..._he suppressed the thought. Now was not the time.

"Well, Mr. Morris,"—he heard papers being shuffled from her end of the table—"it seems you've been rather busy as of late, haven't you?"

He looked up just enough to see the manila folder that now lay open in front of her. That was quite a lot of paper. Mostly text, but some pictures, too... There was a bad one of him, naturally. Great shot for a wanted poster. Then there was one from the article he'd written up last week, one of the building where he used to work, one of his office, one of his basement—when the hell had they gotten inside his house?

_Well,_ he mused dryly, _it's not really a surprise, is it? I wonder if she took these personally. _

"A lot of exciting things have happened this month," she continued, and he noted the faintest hint of irony in her voice. "Plenty of stories to cover. Have you been enjoying yourself, Mr. Morris? It seems you've gained a bit of a reputation."

He didn't respond. Best to wait—find out how much they knew.

_Who am I kidding? They know _everything. _Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. They wouldn't destroy the puzzle, unless they had all the pieces..._

The silence continued, for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was still nauseatingly gentle. It didn't at all match what was said: "Your reputation is that of a radical, Mr. Morris. A propagandist. Several of your latest stories have attempted to discredit respected industries. Many others represent, and even advocate, extremist, unsupported viewpoints that have no place being published by the accredited newspaper that you, until very recently, were associated with."

_Until very recently..._ Thanks to her, no doubt. Or her boss, or whatever. But he wasn't upset about being laid off, right now. That was completely irrelevant—the last thing on his mind, in fact. What he wanted to know was if there was any chance, however small, that they didn't know _why _he had been writing those articles. Maybe if they thought he was just some nutty conspiracy buff with a lucky guess...

_Optimism isn't going to help here._He might as well play the part, though.

"It's not propaganda," he said, trying his best to sound zealous, and cover the shake in his voice. "I know _exactly_ what those companies have been doing."

"We know, Mr. Morris."

The sweet tone hadn't changed, but something in her voice made him abandon his careful inspection of the table, and look at her directly. _We know, Mr. Morris..._ There was no mockery in her words. No sarcasm. Nothing at all, except simple acknowledgment. _That's not good..._

She must have sensed his heightened discomfort, because what was said next could not have been more perfectly suited to make it worse:

"We know everything about you."

A soft smile, and pointedly civil incline of her head. He felt a chill go up his spine.

She leafed through a few papers in the manila folder, then set them aside; revealing an unfamiliar page, with a couple of photos paper-clipped to the edge. They were both face-down. She took one out, held it up, flipped it around in her fingers...

It showed a small, messy room, that appeared to have originally been a walk-in closet. Various objects of indiscernible use were strewn across the floor. The walls were lined with folding tables, bearing an assortment of electronic devices, but mostly LCD computer monitors.

_Oh, God..._

"They did pay you well, didn't they—at your old job? Plenty enough to fund your little hobby, at least. You've been a real headache for surveillance, Mr. Morris."

_How did they get in with the computers?_ That room was locked electronically. It need _voice-activation_, for heaven's sake. And the whole thing was hooked up to an alarm that he'd kept on his person at all times, ever since he'd first stepped into this crazy mess. This was insane. Utterly insane. He'd been so careful...

_But they won. And they'll keep winning, unless there's a damned global rebellion. Isn't that what I was writing about? Isn't that the reason I'm here? _

He took a deep breath, and slowly shook his head. No point in pretending, anymore. It was over.

He looked her fully in the eyes.

"And why would a pharmaceutical company need cell phone surveillance?" he asked, quietly.

"That does not concern you, Mr. Morris." she replied, dismissively. "Nor does it concern the general public, whom you seem so eager to inform."

"It's their privacy. I think it concerns them quite a bit." His sudden calmness surprised even him.

She smiled lightly in response. "After committing a federal offense, Mr. Morris, you are going to lecture me on ethics?"

"Damn right, I am. I know who you're working for."

"Naturally," she replied, unconcerned.

"I know what you've been doing. All of it."

"It would certainly seem that you know a great deal. Much more than you should."

A pause.

"You've done _very _well, in fact," she added, thoughtfully. "Better than most. We had difficulty finding you."

"Oh, what, should I be honored?"

"Yes."

Another brief silence.

"For a time, we thought they had reached you first, Mr. Morris."

"I was never that lucky," he said shortly, though he felt a twinge of emotion. The emphasis she had put on the word was hardly necessary: he knew perfectly well who _they_ were. He had, in fact, been wondering about _them_ from the onset. But despite everything he had done, they had never made contact. Not even a hint of a trace of contact. Maybe he'd painted too big of a target on his back.

_Or maybe they're losing ground._The thought made him shudder inwardly. If the Assassins lost, it was over. Lock, stock, and barrel.

"How unfortunate. You have my sympathies." She made no effort to disguise the sarcasm, this time.

"Yeah, I'll bet I do," he retorted, sharply. "Like I said before, I know everything. I know how you've been toying with the economy as if you own it, and—"

"We _do_ own it."

"No, you don't. You depend on it, as much as everyone else. You just screw with it more."

"Mr. Morris, we hardly 'screw' with the economy. We _are _the economy. We control human lives, because we control that which allows them to live. We are survival. We decide what you see and don't see; hear, and don't hear—"

"Not yet, you don't."

At this, she smiled again.

"Soon, Mr. Morris. _Very _soon. Perhaps within our lifetimes."

"You're corrupted, egotistical bastards."

"Hardly. The world needs order, in one form or another. Look at all the good we've done for humanity, all the discoveries we've made—"

"You mean discoveries you've taken credit for."

"The same thing, if thought to be so."

"That right?"

"Perspective defines reality, Mr. Morris."

"Is this what they taught you to say, or are you making it up as you go?"

"These are simple facts. 'They' didn't teach me anything."

"Oh, that's right. You're self-taught, aren't you? You have tutorial videos coded into your DNA."

For the first time, she did not immediately respond.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Was I not supposed to know about that? Does the word "animus" ring any bells?"

Another silence, this one palpably colder. At length, she smiled.

"_Very_good, Morris."

"I aim to please. Dropped the 'Mr.', have we?"

"Only a handful of people on the outside have discovered our most recent project without assistance."

"And I'll bet none of them lasted long."

"Not long enough to compromise the Industry."

"I wasn't getting out of here alive, anyway."

"No, you weren't."

_There it was._He was dead. Completely, irrevocably dead.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"Then why are we still talking?" His voice sounded hollow, detached... it felt as though he were a bystander, and someone else was controlling his words.

"You have something we want."

"And that is?"

"Access to information that we need erased. Information you uncovered, exposed, and are therefore, responsible to."

"Go to hell."

She sighed.

"Please don't waste my time, Mr. Morris. This would be a relatively simple matter to handle without you. But the fact is, it would be much faster, and _easier_, to take a shortcut. We would greatly appreciate your assistance—and would like you to give it voluntarily, if possible."

"Slowing you down, I am? Well, guess what. I made you a mess for a reason—and it wasn't for me to clean it up."

"I see. Then perhaps we can agree on a different arrangement."

She broke eye contact for the first time in what seemed like ages. He realized he had been holding his breath, and exhaled slowly. _They'll get you to do it in the end, moron,_ he thought with cold resignation. _They always have... _

She unclipped the second of the face-down pictures from the page of the folder, and pushed it towards him from across the table. He hesitated a moment, then reached towards it with an unsteady hand, turned it over...

His entire body seemed to go numb.

"Now, we know," she continued, "that you have no immediate family members still alive. Your father died in a construction accident: your mother, shortly afterwords. You have no siblings. What you do have, is a very close relationship with one Amanda Jane Parker."

"You sick, twisted—"

"She is twenty-eight. Unmarried. Formerly a resident of Buffalo, New York. But at the start of your little crusade, you broke off with her completely."

"You—"

"In hiding your identity, such as you did, you were also forced to erase your friendships. Every last one of them. Thoroughly. I'd imagine you assured her that it was only for awhile. That it was for her protection. Perhaps someone took offense at an article, knew of your relationship, and threatened you both?"

She didn't wait for his answer.

"But you had no idea how long what you were doing would take. For all you knew, it might turn into a lifetime commitment. But the truth had to be revealed. You were willing to sacrifice a great deal for the truth, weren't you, Mr. Morris?"

He didn't respond. He couldn't.

She sighed leniently. "Now, you pay the price. We know where she is—where you told her to go. Would you like the exact address?"

"She has nothing to do with this. Leave her out of it."

"You brought her into it, Mr. Morris, when you chose to involve yourself in our affairs."

"If you do anything to her, I'll—"

"Yes?"

Silence.

"You'll kill us both. You'll kill her anyway, even though she—she—"

"Of course not, Mr. Morris. We are not so terrible at compromising. I'm sure you've already noticed that only a few of your, shall we say, _predecessors_, have been not only themselves erased and discredited, but their relations, as well. If we did not operate in this manner, any intelligent person put into your situation would assume they had nothing to lose."

The silence was complete.

"What do you want me to do?" he heard himself saying.

"You hardly need me to tell you," she answered coolly.

At this, a man in a suit stepped up to her side, and handed her a sleek, state-of-the-art laptop. There had been three of those men there the whole time, watching from the background, like guard dogs. With their formal attire, they might have been waiters at some absurdly expensive restaurant, if it weren't for the handguns.

With a smile, and the fake, cheerful attitude returned in full, she passed him the computer. _His computer. _

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Morris."


End file.
